Tess jumped back. It was Peter, in a white shirt and chinos. ‘You said third floor,’ she said, accusingly.
‘This is the third floor,’ Peter said. ‘Your math is terrible. One,’ he said, pointing at the ground floor. ‘Two. Three,’ he said, mock-slowly.
‘No,’ said Tess, trying not to pant with indignation. ‘Crazy American fool. Ground floor,’ she said, pointing to the front door. ‘First floor. Second floor. Here.’
‘That makes no sense,’ said Peter. ‘You come from a stupid country.’
‘So do you,’ said Tess. ‘That’s another thing. Why, when you write out dates, do you go month, day, and then year? It should be day, month, and then year. It makes no sense. Because—’ She ran out of steam, and stood, watching him.
‘Do you want to talk about US / UK dating systems?’ Peter said, his hands in his pockets. ‘Or do you wanna come inside and have breakfast?’ His eyes ran over her.
‘I want some breakfast,’ Tess said. She put her hand on his shoulder, and slid it around his neck, and then she kissed him hello. ‘Please.’
He looked at her from under hooded eyes, his mouth twitching. ‘You’d better come in then.’
The hall was tiny, but they went into the living room, and Tess handed Peter some coffee she’d bought at a little shop by the piazza in Trastevere. ‘For you,’ she said.
‘That’s really great,’ he said. ‘Because I don’t have any coffee, and it was going to have been a major problem. You are a great girl, Tess.’ He kissed her again, and they stood in the centre of the room, their bodies pressing against one another tightly. Tess broke away, and looked around her properly. ‘Wow,’ she said.
It was a big room. Two huge windows, with wooden shutters, ran the height of the ceiling from which muslin curtains hung, wafting gently in the breeze. She wandered over and looked out, over the garden of the Palazzo Farnese, across the river to Trastevere, the Janiculum Hill, the north of the city, across to the Vatican and beyond. Everything was terracotta and golden under the blue sky, flecked with the black-green pine trees, and white marble ruins. She stood there for a moment as he watched her, taking it all in.
‘A room with a view,’ Tess said dreamily to herself. She could hear bells ringing, chatter from down in the square, the smell of heat and cooking and tarmac that was early-morning Rome. The high ceilings had plaster cornices, the walls were a light lavender grey, covered in framed black-and-white photos, and one wall simply lined with shelves that were crammed with books and magazines. A dark wooden dining table, strewn with paper, receipts, mugs and pens, stood at one end of the room. In front of the biggest French window there was a rug, a fluffy cream seventies thing and at the other end of the room there was a sofa, some chairs, and a TV.
‘This is great,’ Tess said simply. ‘It’s just great.’ Peter came up behind her, and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her neck, her ear, her shoulder.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I don’t usually have people—since Chiara I don’t—’ He broke off. ‘That’s crass. I’m sorry. It’s just I was concerned about you coming here, before.’ She could feel his heart, his warm body against her back. ‘No one has, since she left. And it’s OK. It feels…good.’
‘It’s a great place, Peter.’
‘I’m glad. I’m glad you like it.’ He stopped. ‘I’m sorry. That woman.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s irrelevant now. Let me get you some food. Some coffee.’ He sighed a little, and kissed her again. ‘What do you want?’
She turned around in his arms, and put her finger to his lips, smiling into his dark eyes. ‘I want you,’ Tess said gently. ‘I want you.’
He shook his head, smiling gravely but sweetly, his breathing ragged. He kissed her neck, her ears, his hands running up and down her arms, and then he lowered her to the floor, peeling her dress off, slowly, smiling, and made love to her on the rug, touching her, kissing her, all over. When he eventually put on a condom and slid into her, she thought it would feel different, strange, because she remembered only then that it was the first time after Will, but it didn’t, it all felt completely right. They moved together, on the hard floor, and he raised himself up to look down at her. They both came quickly after that, and she lay underneath him, tickling the hairs on his chest and stroking his shoulders, not wanting him to pull out, staring up at him, wondering how she could have been so lucky. They didn’t say anything. She thought it was because they didn’t need to.
Eventually he got up, tossing her a large, squashy cushion from the sofa, and a throw, and he disappeared into the kitchen. Tess drew the throw over her body and lay there, looking up at the high wooden ceilings, the ancient fan that buzzed above her, feeling no inclination to move, watching the sun shine into the room in wide white stripes.
Peter reappeared a couple of minutes later, carrying two mugs, some things on a plate, and a green bottle, glistening with dew. He raised it towards her.
‘I thought we might have a toast. And some food.’
He came and knelt down beside her, and set the plate—which had salami, cheese, and some bread—down, and the mugs. He leaned forward and kissed her, and she stroked the back of his neck.
‘You are almost too perfect,’ she said. ‘This is too perfect. Hah!’ She propped herself up on one elbow as he opened the bottle, then stooped to kiss her again, run his hand over her shoulder, her arm. She stroked his dark hair back from his face, revelling in the caramel-coloured skin, the lines around the eyes, the mole on his cheek. ‘Are you a made-up person, Peter Gray?’
‘I swear to you I’m not,’ he said, smiling. He poured the sparkling, fizzing liquid into a mug which said ‘Princeton ‘94’ on it, and handed it to her. ‘It’s just nice to—yeah. Doesn’t matter.’
He lay back down beside her, pulling her into the crook of his shoulder, and clinked his mug against hers.
‘Nice to what?’ Tess said, tentatively.
‘Nice to have someone to do this stuff for. Someone like you,’ he said, and kissed her hair. ‘How do you like your holiday now?’
She laughed, low in her throat. ‘A lot better. Thanks to you.’ She held the mug on her stomach, listening to the slow fizzing of the liquid, and she could feel him smiling against her hair. His fingers stroked her ribcage, her breast, under the cotton throw.
Tess felt completely relaxed, but wholly alive. Oh, my God, I love you, she wanted to shout. Thank you, thank you, thank you for coming into my life. Thank you, Roman gods, for Peter Gray. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it, but thank you. She wanted to turn to him and say it, simply say it out loud. I love you. It was crazy, she knew it. I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here, in Rome, in this apartment, with you.
She didn’t realize it, but she was falling asleep, and as Peter’s fingers carried on stroking her, her eyes closed. Peter gently took the mug out of her hand, and placed it on the floor, curling up against her, and they slept. It was not yet quite eleven in the morning. At midday, a cannon sounded, and all the church bells in Rome, it seemed, rang out, some clanging loudly and joyously, some trilling sweetly, carried across from the hills around the city into the open window, and she stirred in his arms, opened her eyes, smiled and fell asleep again.
They did not leave the apartment until after three. Finally, showered and refreshed, they stepped out, hand in hand, onto the street. Peter pulled the great wooden door gently behind him, and as he did Tess looked round, to see if anyone could see them. Yes, her and Peter, this super new, fantastic, wonderful, amazing twosome. Could other people see what they knew, that they had spent all morning and early afternoon, in the sitting room, on the floor, on the sofa, in Peter’s bed, having sex, fantastic sex during which he made her cry out, during which he touched her and licked her until she screamed with pleasure? Could people tell they had been drinking, chatting, laughing, coming together more and more closely as the minutes turned to hours and time ticked by? It was the Prosecco, she told herself—but it was something else, too. The
opposite of just a summer fling.
They were walking back to Tess’s hotel in the early evening, slowly wandering through Trastevere before she met her group for dinner, and they walked in silence, happily, until they reached the Ponte Sisto. Its grey cobbles seemed to shimmer in the heat of the late-afternoon sun. Peter held her hand and they walked slowly across, and as they went Tess watched people walking past her. The tourist couple—were they American?—both in stripey tops, he with a camera around his neck. The dynamic-looking man and woman, both in business suits and dark glasses, walking fast, incongrously eating ice cream. They overtook an older man in a floral shirt, with a dog on a lead. The sun shone down, and Tess looked at Peter, who smiled at her.
‘Well—that was probably my ideal way to spend a Friday,’ he said. ‘Don’t you agree?’
‘Definitely,’ she said. She kissed him, and sighed a little. ‘I feel like I’ve been on holiday. A holiday from the holiday.’
His lips were gentle on hers, his fingers warm on her skin. She breathed out a little, sighing again as she did. He kissed her more urgently.
‘Don’t sound so sad,’ Peter said eventually.
‘I’m not—well, you know—’ Tess wasn’t sure how to play it, all of a sudden, as if crossing the bridge brought her back into reality. In her mind she saw Diana’s notebook, Jan’s sun visor, Carolyn’s querulous face. ‘It’s just that this is so great. And now…I have to go back to normal life.’
They were at the end of the bridge.
‘Tess,’ Peter said, turning to her. ‘I know we said, holiday romance, but you know—’ His hands were soft on her skin. ‘Do you know what I’m thinking?’ He kissed her gently on the forehead, and she closed her eyes slowly, happiness seeping through her.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I was thinking something like that, too—’
‘Tess!’ someone called. ‘Is that you? Tess?’
Tess and Peter sprang apart, and Tess narrowly avoided a young girl on a bike. ‘Oof, sorry,’ she said, leaning against the edge of the bridge to regain her balance. She looked down towards the Piazza Trilussa, which led back towards the hotel. There was Andrea Marsh, waving her arms and looking agitated.
‘She’s having a—a something!’ she called. ‘Ron—she’s saying Ron is—! Tess, do come—quickly! Oh dear me!’
Tess looked at her and shook her head. ‘What?’ She jumped down onto the pavement. They were separated by a busy road; the traffic whizzed by her, as Peter stood behind her. ‘What’s happened?’ she called. But Andrea’s voice was partially obscured by the traffic.
‘Leon—gone mad!’ she said.
‘Leon?’ Peter said, from behind Tess, and Tess whirled round.
‘Leonora Mortmain,’ she said. ‘The one I told you about, the old one—oh, my God, Peter, what’s she—’
By the tiny fountain, the other side of the road, stood Ron, holding his hands up in an angry gesture of denial. He looked flustered and awkward, and in front of him, shaking her head, shaking it again and again, was a small figure in black, leaning on a stick. Leonora Mortmain.
‘Come over with me,’ said Tess desperately, as the incessant traffic miraculously stopped for a few seconds. They ran across the worn-out stripes of the crossing, towards the shouting couple, Andrea next to them.
‘You’re cracked!’ Ron was shouting. ‘Bloody cracked in the head, that’s what!’ His nose was scrunched up, and one eye was twitching. ‘I ain’t listening to you no more, you lying old bitch!’
‘You killed her!’ Leonora Mortmain screamed at him, her cracked, old voice hoarse. ‘You took her away from me, and then you killed her!’ It was a terrible sound; Tess stopped in her tracks. Tourists walking past them also stopped.
‘Is she OK?’ a woman with an Irish accent asked Tess gently. ‘That lady? She’s OK?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ said Tess, not believing herself. ‘I think she’s just a bit…confused.’
‘She followed us from the hotel,’ Ron said loudly. ‘Tess, she followed us. She’s mad!’
Andrea was standing at a distance, wringing her hands. She stepped forward, then, putting her arm gently on Ron’s. ‘Doesn’t matter, Ron,’ she said, with a calm Tess had not seen her possess before. ‘Look, Mrs Mortmain,’ she said, her jaw slightly protruding. ‘What’s the problem, eh? Ooh, watch out.’
A moped swerved past them—they were still, strictly speaking, in the road—and Andrea clutched the older woman by the arm. ‘Get off me!’ Leonora Mortmain cried, her hoarse voice like the screech of a bird. A man walked past with a dog, just an ordinary mongrel, smaller than a labrador, and it gave a soft growl. She jumped, pursing her lips, her eyes blazing wild like a little child’s.
‘I hate dogs,’ she said. ‘I hate dogs.’ She stared at Ron. ‘You know I hate dogs.’ She fiddled with her hands, her fingers writhing against her stomach, and then she looked up, suddenly, and said, ‘You took her away, didn’t you!’ She glanced around, as if suddenly realizing where she was. ‘Where is he?’ she asked, her eyes swivelling alarmingly fast.
‘Where’s who?’
Her face was a rictus of lines. ‘Philip. Where’s Philip?’
Tess misheard her. ‘Philippa? Oh, Mrs Mortmain—’
‘Not her. Not her!! I don’t want her. I said Philip! Where is he?’
‘Who’s Philip?’
The old woman stamped her stick impatiently on the ground. ‘Philip! I keep asking, where is he? They keep saying he’s coming…and then he doesn’t. He doesn’t come.’
Another moped shot past, this time sliding so close that Andrea gave a little scream as it stroked her skirt. Ron pulled her towards him, and Leonora too, but it was too late. The old woman’s eyes opened wide, for the final time.
‘You are just like me, like me,’ she said, staring at Tess with a look of blazing annoyance, almost hatred. And then her mouth clamped shut and she sank, slowly, to the ground, still staring at Tess until her eyes finally closed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A couple of years ago, Tess had watched a programme about the restoration of the famous statue of David by Donatello, which was taking place in the Bargello Museum in Florence. The restorer was a young woman who, for eighteen months, had done nothing but gently clean the surface of the metal, so the young man’s beautiful body, poised between puberty and adulthood, was gleaming and soft perfection once more. She had worked with total dedication, the result being that each day she cleaned less than three square centimetres. And it would be worth it, she explained to the camera, for something so precious.
Tess was reminded of this all through that awful night, though she didn’t know why. Afterwards she thought it was a sign, perhaps, of how contradictory Italians are. So seemingly willing to surrender to chaos, and yet so extraordinarily organized, patient, kind, unsentimental. The ambulance that drove them to the hospital—as she sat, staring blankly, Peter asking questions in Italian, Mrs Mortmain’s tiny, stiff body lying on a stretcher—drove like a thing possessed, even though the hospital was only a couple of minutes away, the driver waving, cursing, even banging the windscreen. She had heard the ambulances’ sirens all week, ululating around Rome. It seemed completely unreal that she should be in one now.
Thank God for Peter, she kept thinking. He had called the ambulance, he had asked them to explain what was going on. He was clearly terrified too, but she didn’t know what she would have done without him. He translated for her as they raced through the streets.
‘She says your—Mrs—lady—she’s had a stroke, probably, a kinda big one, but they need to see what damage has been done.’ He patted her hand. ‘It’ll be fine. I’m sure. The hospital’s—’ He pointed, down to the river. ‘It’s right there. The Isola Tiberina.’
Tess had noticed, as she was crossing the Tiber a couple of times, an island in the middle of the river. ‘There’s a hospital there?’
He pointed again. ‘Yep. It’s very old. Been there since, like, Roman times I think. But it’s really
good.’
‘Great,’ she said, though it wasn’t, really. ‘So it’s—’
‘Literally two minutes away, Tess. It’s going to be fine.’
She wished he wouldn’t keep saying that. It wouldn’t be fine. It wasn’t fine.
Ron and Andrea had gone back to the hotel, to tell the others. Not knowing what else to do, as the ambulance arrived Tess had quickly rung Beth Kennett, the college principal, to break the news to her. The usually calm Beth had not been very reassuring.
‘Oh, God. It’s not just it’s happened to someone,’ she said. ‘It’s that it’s happened to that someone. Shit.’
‘Sorry,’ said Tess, not knowing what to say. She hadn’t done it on purpose, caused one of her charges to have a massive stroke. She watched as Mrs Mortmain was loaded onto a gurney and a crowd gathered around her, the afternoon sun beating down on them.
Beth sounded desperate. ‘Oh, God,’ she said again. ‘Who’s her family? I’d better call them.’
Tess paused. ‘Well, she hasn’t really got any.’
‘There must be someone. She can’t have no one in the world,’ Beth said.
‘I don’t know…’ Tess said. She felt as if she were being rude, highlighting the victim’s lack of family. ‘She was quite—er—solitary.’ Beth sounded brisk. ‘No husband? Why’s she called “Mrs”?’
‘She always was,’ Tess said. ‘I don’t know.’ She realized just how much she didn’t know. ‘She didn’t marry. I think. Actually, that’s a point. I don’t know who the next of kin is at all.’
‘Well, that’s what I mean,’ Beth Kennett said. ‘There must be someone. And we need to tell them.’
Tess had watched as the ambulance driver slammed the door. He gestured to her, and Peter motioned her towards the ambulance. Tess thought for a second. ‘Carolyn Tey would know. I’ll ask her. She’d know how to get hold of Jean, anyway.’
‘Jean?’
‘Her housekeeper.’
I Remember You Page 24
